Alan: There are times when I can’t resist turning on my elders and betters, Poets with a capital P. And yet I do protest too much, methinks...
Ariel And Wodwo
I am, I should hope, a somewhat reasonable man;
somewhat advancing in years – not likely
to put my head into ovens, scissor
my angst into crows, fancies into foxes,
not likely to fashion my ladyfriends, passions,
neuroses into anything identifiable, metaphorical what-
soever. In short, not a poet. But then
I have you to thank for inflaming me
with what a poet is, how lives,
how dies, one thumb off and the other
grasping against smeared fingers
the bloody, blank, bird-feathered pen
with which it so busily waits
for the red core and thumping heart of it
to be smashed out on the page.
Nancy: There’s always a day – maybe the sun comes out or the air softens – and suddenly the temptation surges to open a window and toss everything out, grab a broom and start over.
Empty boots marching around the room to different drummers.
Socks, swimming. Socks in repose.
Socks engaged in mating rituals.
Cats in preliminary poses for a series on the Furred Maja.
Techniques of Chinese Cooking.
Things to be filed. A guide
to the formation and operation of small businesses.
Birds of the Moosehorn National Wildlife Refuge.
Yesterday’s mail. Yesterday’s lemon,
possibly good for one more cup of tea.
Tea, again. Rataplan. The socks swim on.
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